Lessons and Failures
by metatrons-gurl
Summary: Movie Fic Different PoV's on the end of the movie and beyond.
1. Lessons and Failures

Title: Lessons and Failures  
  
Author: metatrons_gurl  
  
Summary: Ichabod's PoV of some of the last scenes in the movie.  
  
Pairings: Umm...Tidbits of Ichabod/Katrina but nothing really explicit.  
  
Feedback: Please? Metatrons_gurl@yahoo.com Again, flames will be used to make me laugh.  
  
Archival: DeppFanFiction, Fanfiction.net, Anyone else "Want, ASK, take, have".  
  
Disclaimer: I am not Tim Burton. I am not Washington Irving. I do not even own the song I was listening to when I wrote this. "Darkness" belongs to Disturbed and the CD belongs to a friend of mine.  
  
A/N: My beta is getting hate letters from me....THREE FRICKIN' WEEKS!!!!!! Sorry about the delay in getting this out. *Glares at beta who scurries away*   
  
Lessons and Failures   
  
I can not move. I stare at the skewered man. I vaguely hear a woman scream, Katrina. Baltus seems to be unable to move, then, suddenly he is pulled, as if by an unseen force, backwards and through the window.  
  
I do not know how I arrived on the balcony, nor do I know how Katrina is there. I can do nothing for Baltus, I can only watch in morbid fascination as he is dragged across the churchyard.  
  
A rope, I realize suddenly, the horseman used a rope to anchor his makeshift pike to him. I vaguely acknowledge that I now have no case. Baltus, now lying, neck wedged in the fence, was the only conceivable suspect. The Horseman has turned, riding towards the fallen man, sword drawn. He draws nearer, mere feet from Baltus.  
  
Katrina was right.  
  
The sword is raised higher, and in one swift movement, separates the head from Baltus' body. I feel about to faint, yet the world does not go black and I hear a soft 'thud' from behind me.  
  
Katrina.  
  
I turn, slowly, to look at her. After proving to myself that she is breathing, my eyes move to her face. However, upon seeing the bauble at her throat I stop. The crone, in the Western Woods, wore that necklace. I briefly saw it during my encounter with her. The witch is dead now, decapitated, though not by the Horseman, but by a being of flesh and blood, as I have said all along. Almost afraid of what else I might find, my eyes flick to Katrina's hand. The dust on her finger is the color of the mark under the bed in my room. The one Young Masbeth (his name is Jonathan as I have discovered, but I will not call him such until he permits me) says is the 'Evil Eye'. There is a pastel next to her hand, obviously the origin of the dust.  
  
Unnerved, I raise my eyes to survey the church. Doctor Lancaster lies face- down where he has fallen, most definitely dead. The heavy wooden cross Steenwyck used to bash the Doctor's skull is resting near him. Steenwyck's body, in a growing pool of blood, lies, also face-down, next to the Reverend's wig. His long, dark blonde hair revealing him as the other participant in the recently deceased Lady Van Tassel's midnight tryst. I force my eyes to continue farther down the aisle. There, midway down, in all its horrid glory, is the 'Evil Eye'.  
  
Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù  
  
"It was an evil spirit possessed you," my words sound hollow, even to my own ears. "I pray God it is satisfied now and that you find peace. The Evil Eye has done its work," I know she cannot hear me, yet I am compelled to speak. "My life is over, spared for a lifetime of horrors in my sleep, waking each day to grief-"I break off. Suddenly unable to form syllables around the lump in my throat. The only two women I have ever trusted are gone. One murdered by a tyrant to purge her soul, the other lies before me sleeping. When she wakes I will be gone. I cannot stay here any longer. This place has created painful memories and has resurrected anguishing ones.  
  
Unable to bear it any longer, I leave the room for the safety of my own lodgings.  
  
Once in my rooms, I light a fire. I tell myself that it is to drive away the chill of the fall, knowing that nothing can dispel this cold pain in my heart.  
  
My eyes rest upon my Ledger. I came to this place full to bursting with ideas and methods and uncertain pride. I * knew * I would not fail. I would bring the 'assassin', as I had termed him, to justice.  
  
A self-degrading sneer curls my lip. How utterly foolish I had been. I could no more have proved myself here than I could have in New York. Yet, at least in New York, my heart and soul would not have been among the casualties.  
  
With a sense of grim determination I pick up the black-leather covered book and walk to the hearth. When I reach it I open the book. The first image my eyes fall to is that of one of the ways to coax a confession out of a suspect back at home, next to it, in bold black is a single word. 'Torture!' Yes, perhaps, but it is nothing compared to this sharp ache in my chest.  
  
I turn more pages, resting at last on two facing pages filled with drawings. Eyes, a blindfolded face, a heart, a word, 'Katrina'. Jaw set, I toss the ledger into the flames, watching as the fine leather finally catches and burns, pages already aflame.  
  
I reach into my right chest pocket. Finding what I wished to, I pull out a small blue book. 'The Compendium of Spells, Charms, and Devices of the Spirit World'. I remember Katrina's words, "Keep it close to your heart. It is sure protection against harm," and am tempted to throw it in to the flames as well, but something stops me. I have a link to my mother, her gift of the spinning disc, yet I have none to Katrina. I think I shall keep this, merely as a reminder. The book finds its way back into my pocket as the coach pulls up.  
  
I have said my goodbyes and packed my bags, it is time to leave. I walk down the stairs and out onto the porch where Young Masbeth waits for me with my luggage.  
  
"You think it was Katrina don't you?" he asks, but it sounds like an accusation.  
  
My eyes fly to meet his. "That can never be uttered," I warn.  
  
"A strange sort of witch," his eyes are filling with angry tears. "With a kind and loving heart! How can you think so?"  
  
"I have good reason," I falter.  
  
"Then you are bewitched by reason," he concludes, and it is all I can do to force the grief from my voice.  
  
"I am beaten down by it!" I tell him. "It's a hard lesson for a hard world, and you had better learn it, Young Masbeth, villainy wears many masks. None so dangerous as the mask of virtue," I know I sound bitter, I am. It was a lesson I learned from my father. I do not miss him, no matter how much I hear from those at the village I left about how great and powerful he was. I maintain that he was a tyrant.  
  
I look at Masbeth's face, and I see such sadness. The poor boy has been through so much and has come out the stronger for it. I place a comforting hand on his shoulder and permit myself a brief, sad smile. Then I walk to the coach where Van Ripper has been loading my luggage.  
  
Before I climb in, I turn to look at the boy I have come to trust and care for, even if I did use him as a human shield. Before I can stop myself I look to the window to the room that I know holds Katrina. My heart breaks all over again and I force myself into the coach.  
  
Another failure noted. Another page turned. I decide that my statement to the Burgomaster when I arrive is that the murderer was killed by a group of people defending one of his would-be victim's. It is much simpler than the truth. I pull my mother's disc from my pocket and spin it, allowing it to soothe my mind for a while. A short while and I will be back in New York, Sleepy Hollow in the past and forgotten. 


	2. Ghosts, Memories, and a Pickety Witch

Title: Ghosts, Memories, and a Pickety Witch  
  
Summary: Companion piece to Lessons and Failures. Katrina's PoV  
  
Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.  
  
A/N: I really wasn't expecting to get any reviews on Lessons and Failures. So to morph, Candyland, and Mythical Assassin, THANK YOU SO MUCH!  
  
Feedback: Please? Metatrons_gurl@yahoo.com If you feel like flaming me, go ahead.  
  
Ghosts, Memories, and a Pickety Witch  
  
He is gone. He does not know that I heard his whispered goodbye; he probably did not realize he had spoken it. I have not the heart to go to him. He would turn me away if I should, so any effort would be pointless. It would seem that he can be as moody as Father.  
  
Was.  
  
He can be as moody as Father * was*. The room suddenly feels colder. Father is gone, as is the woman who would have me call her 'mother'. I realize now that something always struck me as 'wrong' about her. I was but a child and, as such, held my tongue, but now that I can speak my mind about her, she is not here.  
  
Nor is anyone else it would seem. Sarah, the servant girl, who I once called friend, has disappeared. Lady Van Tassel is dead, killed by the Horseman. Ichabod, who did not know that he had stolen my heart in the moment I laid eyes on him, has left of his own volition. The raised voices from the front yard shortly before his carriage left reassure me of that fact. And Father- Father is also dead. I am alone. Utterly and inescapably alone.  
  
A lone tear, the harbinger of many to come, makes its way down my cheek. Ah, but perhaps- perhaps I am not alone. I can still remember.  
  
Father's gentle hand wipes away my tear. "Katrina, love," he says pleading. "Do not weep, child. She would not want you to. And I cannot bear to see my precious daughter in such a state. Come here, Love." He tenderly waves me towards the rocking chair Mother favored. As he seats himself in it, I climb onto his lap. He puts his arm around me, cradling me to his chest, and I feel- I feel secure.  
  
The warmth fades from around me as the memory leaves. Suddenly there is a young boy in front of me. He has not lost his baby-like appearance; he has dark brown hair, and even darker eyes. Eyes like that dark, bittersweet chocolate that Mother favored, and that Father gave as a rare treat when he had ventured into the larger city. Eyes that shine like ebony. Familiar eyes. The eyes of a stranger, grasped by chance, in a game of Pickety Witch. Ichabod's eyes. New tears make salt-tracks down my cheeks.  
  
"Why are you crying?" the child asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.  
  
"Because I am alone," I tell him, and he comes to kneel in front of me.  
  
"No," he says, his voice growing deeper. "You are not alone."  
  
Ichabod is kneeling in front of me, his hand on one of mine. "You have me," he says simply, a soft smile on his lips and a gentle look to his eyes that I cannot place. He brings his other hand up to my face, wiping at the tears there with a butterfly's touch. "You have me," he repeats.  
  
I stretch a hand out to touch his hair and falter. It is no longer Ichabod there, but Brom. My childhood friend looks at me with a look of mixed defeat and regret.  
  
"You love him," it is a statement, not a question, yet I nod the affirmative. "He loves you," Brom concludes.  
  
I am about to respond when Brom fades replaced by a beautifully plain woman. A simple wreath of flowers, looking as if a child made it, accents her long brown hair. Her eyes are that dark shade that shines from Ichabod's eyes. Ichabod's mother. She smiles, as if reading my thoughts, and I see whom Ichabod takes after. She is, as he said, a gentle soul. Her smile is warm and her eyes hold a silent plea. 'Take care of him,' she seems to say. 'He has suffered. I would not have him suffer longer.' I consider asking how I am to take care of him when he has left, but she gently kisses my forehead, an all-too-real reminder of my own mother, and I cannot. 'He will be back,' her eyes tell me.  
  
I almost ask, "When?" but she fades, and is quickly replaced by Ichabod.  
  
"Soon," he says, that soft smile again gracing his face. "Soon." I now recognize the emotion in his eyes. That same emotion was in Sean Killian's eyes when he looked at Elizabeth. Love.  
  
The sound of footsteps tears me from my thoughts and I turn. Perhaps Jonathan has decided to stay here.  
  
"Dear stepdaughter," a familiar voice says and ice trails down my spine. "You look as if you have seen a ghost."  
  
And as the black oblivion swallows me, the thought flies through my mind that yes, I have. I have seen several ghosts, but this- this is a ghoul. 


	3. Where Do We Go From Here?

A/N: First of all: This will be continued. At the moment I have a nice storyline type thing written out...Somewhere... Thank you so much to everyone who gave me ideas and feedback: morph, MoonyTrudy, Cloudburst2000, andylawrenceishot07, ChozenRogue, and Elizabeth Crane. 

Disclaimer: I still don't own it. I'm so pathetic I don't even own the music I was listening to when I wrote it....Or the computer I used to write it...

A/N2: Recommended music for this is either 'I Will Always Love You' by Whitney Houston, or 'Where Do We Go From Here?' by the Buffy cast. This one is from young Masbeth's Point of View. I don't think he's a dumb kid, I just think he doesn't say much, he did get what the notary was saying before Ichabod did, after all...Review and tell me if it sounds alright. 

Where Do We Go From Here?  
  
I wonder what the Constable saw that caused him to faint. Perhaps it was a rather large spider, I wonder if Miss Katrina knows of his fear of them. After he fell Miss Katrina and I were both shocked; why did he just fall? After we knew he had fainted Miss Katrina tried to bring him around by one of the standard methods; a few slaps to the face. When that did not work she sent me to fetch Van Ripper.  
  
After we brought him back to the Van Tassel's, although I guess now it is really only Miss Katrina's, house, we managed to bring him up to his room. That was nearly three hours ago. I have taken up a post just outside of the door; I can hear everything in the room and I will be able to alert Miss Katrina if he wakes.  
  
Once the Constable was tucked away, Miss Katrina went to her 'reading room' and tried to finish a story that she had 'set aside' some time ago. Her reading lasted nearly an hour before she became curious enough to check on Mr. Crane's condition. After she was satisfied that he had not walked out of the window, she disappeared back to her books. She has checked on him every quarter hour since.  
  
She worries about him, it is not difficult to see, one only need look and the 'evidence' is there. Her fretting over him for the past few hours is the least of the signs. I might be considered young, but have been near enough loving couples, Mother and Father, and the Killians, to know true love and affection when it is present.  
  
I believe I hear Mr. Crane stirring. After a brief moment of indecision as to what to do first, help Mr. Crane or alert Miss Katrina, I decide that Miss Katrina's worrying should be relieved before she would wear a hole in the floor. I almost run downstairs to tell Miss Katrina that he is awakening.  
  
"Miss Katrina," I have reached the 'parlor' I suppose it is called. Miss Katrina spins around to face me as soon as I speak.  
  
"Yes?" She says. "Is something the matter?"  
  
"He is waking up, I think," immediately she starts towards the stairs. I follow her at a slower pace.  
  
Once at his rooms she enters and pushes the door to where it is open a slight crack. I again take up my usual post just outside the door to wait.  
  
"Are you alright?" Miss Katrina asks him. Her question brings a stop to his usual pacing.  
  
"I am quite...Quite alright, Katrina," he says after a pause. "Thank you. And yourself?"  
  
"I am fine, all things considered," there is a note to her voice that I have not heard before, sadness.  
  
There is a deep silence. "Where will you go now?"  
  
"Most likely back to New York," Mr. Crane does not seem happy about this thought. He sounds the way I feel at this statement. I had almost begun to look upon him as a father and now he is leaving.  
  
"Then I wish you well," Miss Katrina seems to be on the brink of tears.  
  
"Yes... Katrina I-"  
  
"I know," she pauses, sniffles. "I know."  
  
The silence is much longer this time. I begin to wonder if they will speak when Mr. Crane breaks the silence.  
  
"Katrina, I would-"his voice breaks and he pauses before continuing in a stiff, formal manner that announces his discomfort. "I would be very well pleased if young Masbeth and yourself could be persuaded to accompany me on my journey back to the city."  
  
Miss Katrina is quiet for a moment. "A simple 'would you like to come along?' would have sufficed, Ichabod." She is still near tears, but there is a slight smile in her voice.  
  
"Ah," Mr. Crane seems slightly put out. "Would-"  
  
"Ichabod," she says warmly. "I would venture that you already know my answer. All that is needed is young Masbeth's and I am quite certain that he would follow you anywhere."  
  
"So," for a constable, I muse, it does take him a while to work through some things. "Your answer is 'yes'?"  
  
"Of course," I peer around the slit of the door just in time to see her embrace him.  
  
He stiffens slightly at this, surprised, but soon begins to return the embrace. 

Now Miss Katrina's head is resting against his shoulder and his chin is atop her head, both are genuinely smiling.  
  


Unloading all of our luggage from the carriage would most likely have taken less time if Van Ripper had wanted to help. I pick up the last of it and begin to walk around to the other side of the carriage.  
  
Miss Katrina is looking around in awe and I cannot help but to do the same. The city is huge.  
  
"You will soon get your bearings young Masbeth," Mr. Crane smiles as we finally begin to walk. "The Bronx is up," he says referring to a river that my mother often talked about. "The Battery is down," he refers to another river. "And home is this way."  
  
Mr. Crane's arm is about Miss Katrina's waist, and she walks, probably smiling, leaning into him slightly. I follow a few paces behind, still awestruck by this place. Even though I am in a new and foreign area, this feels somehow right. It feels like I am home. Like we are home. Together. A family. 


	4. I've Been Watching

Title: I've Been Watching  
Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.  
A/N: I am continuing this story. The idea for the character of Mrs. Franklin came from watching a few too many Judy Dench movies. Róisín and Ava are characters that I based on two of my friends....They'll know who they are when I introduce them.

I was worried about the man next door. He was a man of so many contradictions. Such a quiet fellow he was, and yet there were odd explosions that came from his upstairs quarters. Such a slight fellow and yet he had managed to become one of New York's constables. Such an intelligent man and yet he was entirely clueless when it came to the women of the city.  
  
Well...I suppose all men are lacking in intelligence when it comes to women. Lord knows my Michael, God rest him, was completely lost. But not so lost, it would seem, as this fellow. Regardless, the women seemed to flock to him, in my day they were called harlots.  
  
They would corner him as he walked to his home. They would throw themselves at him at any opportunity. When they were especially forward, he would blush furiously, stutter an excuse and retreat into his sanctuary. In his absence they had taken to pushing letters under his door, no doubt frustrated that he had not been seen.  
  
He had not actually been in his home for nearly three weeks. For the first several days I thought he was simply working all night, as he was wont to do. It was not until I ventured to his door to ask if he had finished the copy of Shakespeare's Macbeth I had loaned him that I learned that he was not at his residence.  
  
Another contradiction, the man was a poet and romantic at heart and yet worked alongside the most pigheaded and superficial men in existence. I knew that they mocked him and his methods. He would often visit to keep me company; I had long since learned that a small amount of liquor in two cups of tea could open the mouth of even the most secretive man.  
  
My musings were interrupted by another oddity coming up the lane. An amazingly strange group was making its way, slowly but surely. A tall figure in a style of suit that I would know anywhere, was leading two others towards the house that neighbored mine.  
  
My neighbor had returned. And he had brought guests.  
  
Or possibly was trying to escape them, I could not tell. A woman was clinging to him and talking animatedly to the boy, probably her brother, that followed them. The poor boy looked as though he could topple over at any moment from the weight of the luggage he carried. My neighbor was smiling, but he had learned to force a smile so well that from a distance one cannot tell if it is genuine.  
  
I stepped away from my window and walked towards the door. If this was another of those 'city girls' I was going to give her a piece of my mind. If not...Well, better safe than sorry.  
  
I made it to the door and tugged at it. The blasted thing was stuck again! For the third time that week! I let out a groan of frustration, there was no way that stubborn door was going to stop me, and put all my strength behind the next pull. The door finally came free and I stormed outside just as my neighbor was nearing his door.  
  
"You!" I sputtered, shaking a finger in the woman's direction. "You don't belong here!" Her dress was one of the newer fashions, the girl was rich. This fact only made me angrier. "You leave him alone!"  
  
She drew herself to her full height, at barely five feet she was not threatening, and looked at me oddly, as if judging me. My neighbor had paused in trying to unlock his door, and had a bemused look. The boy, quite frankly, looked terrified. Good.  
  
"You and your kind! Always hounding him!" I mocked. "None of you have the sense to see he is not interested!"  
  
My neighbor leaned against his door and watched, a confusedly amused expression on his face. The girl looked faintly puzzled and arched an eyebrow. The boy still looked terrified.  
  
"I suppose you are 'making up for lost time', hmm?" When the girl still did not speak, I continued. "You listen to me. He is not rich. He has no interest in petty talk of the weather. He-"I broke off as I heard a peculiar sound. Constable Ichabod Crane was laughing.  
  
"And just what is so humorous, Constable?" I asked.  
  
"Mrs. Franklin, I must say, this- this is not-"he said, still laughing, "not how I had planned for you to meet, but- but it will have to do." He ceased to speak and resumed his attempt to unlock his door amidst his laughter.  
  
I turned back to the girl, very confused. She did not look offended, merely amused. "I- I," I attempted several times to form a sentence but she simply waved her hand and smiled.  
  
"It is quite alright. Ichabod is fortunate to have a concerned neighbor like yourself," I did not respond. Her soft voice and use of his first name only served to confuse me further. "I am Katrina Van Tassel."  
  
I frowned. "You are not from the city, are you?"  
  
Her smile broadened, "I wished it was not so obvious. No I am not. Constable Crane was kind enough to permit us to come to live with him here in New York."  
  
"'Us'?" I repeated.  
  
She gestured to the boy who stepped forward, still slightly afraid of me.  
  
"It is alright, child," I soothed. "I will not bite."  
  
"Much," Crane muttered as he opened the door.  
  
"Hush, you," I told him, smiling.  
  
The boy looked relieved. "I am Yo-"he paused, uncertain, "Jonathan Masbeth."  
  
My original assumption had been wrong. "Where are you from?"  
  
The girl looked as though she were trying to think of a simple answer. "A small town," she finally answered. "Three days to the north."  
  
I nodded, if she did not wish to tell me the name of the town that was her decision. "So that is where you disappeared to Crane," I said turning my attention to my neighbor, who was patiently waiting in his doorway. "Why did you go without notice?"  
  
He thought for a moment before answering, "The constabulary dispatched me to the town on what they termed 'urgent business'. I had very little notice myself. And how are you, Mrs. Franklin?"  
  
I narrowed my eyes, there was more to it than that. I would learn it later. "I am doing well, thank you for asking. You must come for supper sometime this week. My nieces are going to invade my home soon and I wish to have a quiet evening with friends before I am surrounded by chatty females... Not one word."  
  
Crane shut his mouth, smirked, and shook his head. "Why are your nieces staying with you?"  
  
"My sister, Elaine, passed away and, as their only relative, I offered them a home. I had forgotten what talkative young women Róisín and Ava were." The girl's brows furrowed when I said my nieces' names. "My sister was quite odd," I said by way of explanation.  
  
She nodded slightly, not saying anything. I turned back to where Crane stood. "I will leave you to get settled in, but you will come to supper soon, and you will bring the young lady and the boy," my tone left no room for argument. He smiled slightly and nodded. I nodded curtly and bid them good day before walking back into my own home.  
  
I resumed my place at the window and watched as the three talked briefly and then walked into the house, Crane's arm around the girl's waist, her head resting against his shoulder, the boy close behind. I smiled. I never imagined that there would be a day that I would believe that a woman would be good for my neighbor, and yet I had the distinct feeling that this girl would be just what he needed. Well, at least the other 'ladies' would leave him alone now...


End file.
